


show me the stars

by PeroxideBlue



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Annabeth Grace, Author's Favorite, Daughter of Athena!Thalia, Daughter of Zeus!Annabeth, Gen, Hunter!Annabeth, Older!Annabeth, One of My Favorites, Thalia Chase, Thalia/Annabeth Friendship, Younger!Thalia, this is one of my favourite works tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 23:00:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7593733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeroxideBlue/pseuds/PeroxideBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Annabeth is a daughter of Zeus, but the crown reserved the princess of the gods is too heavy for her head. Thalia is a daughter of Athena who would rather fight and reign than plan and think. / Thalia, Annabeth, and never fitting in the place you were supposed to belong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	show me the stars

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so someone asked me to write daughter of Zeus!Annabeth and daughter of Athena!Thalia on fanfiction.net but since this is one of my favourite works I'm posting this here too. Sue me.
> 
> Probably very, very OOC, you've been warned.

The night your life ends, you are twelve and scared, your blonde curls sticking to your forehead covered in sweat and droplets of rain —or perhaps blood—, you don’t know. Not like it matters that much, right? Not when your best friends are about to die in front of you and there’s a monster of some kind about to slash all of you into pieces.

(But they can’t catch you, you won’t allow it.)

Luke screams something, the majority of his words carried away by the loud rumbling of water hitting against the wet dark dirt under your feet. You can only hope he isn’t saying anything too important.

You try to run _faster, faster, faster,_ try to reach him, to curl around him and close your eyes and pretend nothing of this is currently happening and that everything will be okay when you open your eyes again.

But you blink, and your eyelashes are still wet and you legs still hurt when you open your eyes again.

“Run, Annabeth, run!” Luke somewhat pleads, his voice raw and desperate and everything it shouldn’t be. They all grow up too fast, their childhood lying forgotten on the floor of their first house, back when the only monsters they know where either inside their wardrobes or making dinner in the kitchen.

(Parents aren’t always angels, don’t you think, Annie?)

Oh, no, little Thalia is crying, what are you going to do about it? I guess at seven years old, she is really too young to fight against a monster, huh.

But don’t you worry, princess. It’s not like any of you had a choice, right? Your parents, whether divine or mortal, made sure of that.

Ignore her tears, love, and keep going if you don’t want to see those eyes dry and unfocused for the rest of all eternity.

A roar echoes through the solitary forest. It’s coming, can’t you feel it?

Turn around, daughter of Zeus. Your destiny awaits.

(And maybe daddy dearest never cared enough to try to protect you, but _you are not like him, you hear me? You are your own person and you’ll die for your family!_ )

Or at least, that’s what you say to yourself. It’s none of my business, honey. You can tell yourself whatever lies you please.

Sword in hand, Annabeth. Ignore all escape routes. There are some things you just can’t run away from.

You’ll fail, naturally. After all, you are just a little girl.

Droplets of water fall on your face, caressing your skin as they travel to the ground, supplying for the tears your own eyes can’t spill. Seems a little too overdramatic, don’t you think? Why don’t you just close you eyes quietly and wait for this to end?

(Yes, sweetheart. Just like that.)

Father, please, please, please—

God, do you even know what you’re muttering? Oh. So you don’t. Just a sting of uncoordinated words that fly out of your lips, a plea to a father that was never there, the last leap of faith.

Your prayers are unanswered (shocking, really, I never saw that one coming). Your limbs turn into branches, and your tanned skin is now the same shade of green you used to see on the grass of Mrs. Winchester’s backyard.

The midnight sky comes closer, and you stretches, try to caress the stars with your fingertips —then maybe you’ll be able to change the destiny that was written there about you (and wouldn’t that be nice?)—, but it’s always out of your reach.

Such a shame, princess. I guess some things really never change.

Screams come from somewhere near the ground (perhaps they are from you friends) but you are barely aware.

Two scared kids —a fourteen year old boy and a seven year old little kid, aren’t they too young for this torture?— cross the door.

Relax, my sweet baby, they are safe now. Everything is going to be okay.

(And you close your eyes only to never open them again.) 

* * *

Aren’t they scary, Thals? The campers. I think they are. They are too tall and too loud and there are too many and none of them like the Hulk as much as you do. I mean, what’s not to like? He’s big and strong and smashes things. He’s the best superhero ever, right?

But none of them understand. They are too busy talking about strategies and something called ‘olympus’ and swords (don’t deny you listened a little bit more attentively when you heard that, because I know you) and none of them will play with you.

Annabeth would, you know it.

But she isn’t here anymore, sweetheart, so maybe you’ll have to play war heroes all by yourself.

Aw, they don’t let you hold a sword? Of course they won’t, Thalia. You are seven, _for god’s sake, what the hell are you thinking, you stupid brat_?

(Try not to hear those words with your step mother’s voice.)

Clutch the knife closer to your chest. Maybe they won’t take it and one day you’ll be able to fight as Annabeth does. Doesn’t that sound great?

You can fight them, and be the winner, and you can win the war and be a hero. It’ll be just like your games, but better. A dream come true.

But the kids in your cabin don’t like how you think. They say the kids of Athena don’t fight, that they are supposed to stay back and _research_ about monsters and how to kill them.

You wrinkled your nose when they told you that, like they words offended you; and in a way, they did.

Not fight? And _study_? Are you really a daughter of Athena, after all? You don’t really look like any of your siblings —all of them perfectly similar, with their blonde hair and grey eyes framed by all types of glasses, with an intelligence that could rival Einstein’s, and their lack of desire to live any kind of adventure. And then there’s you— with wild black hair and electric blue eyes that seem to burn entire cities when you are angry; you, with a free spirit and a passionate hatred for longs hours of study locked away from nature.

You try to tell Luke that _they just have to be wrong, okay, they are nothing like me!_ , but he just ruffles your hair and laughs and says he has to go practice with his sword.

Very well. You might not be as smart as your siblings, but you still know when you aren’t wanted.

For the next years, you spend most of your time sitting under Annabeth’s tree, wishing she would come back.

(But we don’t always get what we want, right?)

* * *

It’s everything you ever wanted. Peace and quiet, the warm feeling of sunrays caressing you every morning, children running and laughing in the distance.

Yes. This could very well be your personal paradise.

There’s nothing wrong here.

Are you dead? You often wonder. The last memory you have is one of pain and rain and friends who were finally safe and perhaps this really is the afterlife.

(If only you believed in it.)

Your mind feels foggy, and time seems to run slower here. Maybe it doesn’t run at all. Whatever. You deserved this, after all those years and your mother and Jason and after everything.

_But then—_

Pain. There’s something that burns your skin, and you try to scream even though you know you can’t. Something twists painfully in what feels like your chest, and if you didn’t know better, you’d say that it’s ripping away muscular tissue.

So. This may not be heaven after all.

(How about eternal punishment, then, sweetie?)

* * *

He comes stumbling into your life, lost and tired and really, you shouldn’t feel so identified with him. So you frown at him, call him a Seaweed Brain, makes sure he knows you two aren’t friends. Because you are _not_.

Sure, he might be the son of Poseidon and he might have to fulfil a prophecy (and damn him to hell for stealing what you’ve been dreaming about for so long), but that doesn’t mean you’ll follow him to the ends of earth so you can get a chance to shine.

Except that you do.

And it only gets worse after that, because he’s nice and funny and he has the life that you always wanted (a loving mother and a father that doesn’t despise you, and he also gets to have adventures and be a hero? Not fair), but you can’t really hate him since he’s the only kid your age that doesn’t look at you weird when he learns that you —a daughter of Athena, for Zeus’ sake— want to be free and see the world and live adventures and that you despise studying or anything that has to do with books.

Besides, Luke now only talks to you when he really has to, and you desperately yearn for a friend that understands you and doesn’t mind when you get mad at the universe and run off to sit quietly under the tree that used to be your best friend.

And, as sad as it might be, Percy fits that description completely.

Luke betrays all of you and you feel something being ripped out of your chest because that’s your brother there, Thals, the one who promised to protect you and now he’s abandoning you just like the rest of the world!

(Maybe it’s because you aren’t worth it. Because you were never good for them anyway.)

Suddenly, it’s been a year and Percy got turned into a guinea pig and saved you from the sirens (not necessarily in that order) and Annabeth is dying and _God, why can’t the world leave you alone, what have you done to deserve this?_

Mommy seems to like punishing you for not being like the rest of her perfect, perfect children, isn’t that right, little one?

But then Annabeth is lying right next to her roots, her grey eyes lost and unfocused and you think you could cry tears of relief now that she’s back.

Let’s just hope she’s come to stay this time.

* * *

The light blinds you and makes you shut your eyes again, even though somehow you know the sun hasn’t risen yet. Everything comes back to you —sounds, colours, the cold feeling of damp ground under your fingers,— in a rush and for the first time since that cold night, you feel short of breath. Something is happening, and you’re not sure you like it.

A soft touch brings you back to reality —whatever that might be now— and perhaps you wouldn’t mind going back to wherever you were before.

“Annabeth?” A trembling voice asks, making your whole body shake and kick back into life.

No matter how many eternities you spend in that void where the world doesn’t spin anymore and time doesn’t exist, you could never forget that voice, even if its has lost its childish cadence and it’s rougher somehow, like it hasn’t been used very frequently.

“Thalia,” you croak, your voice raspy and your throat on fire and you don’t remember how much living hurt.

“It’s okay, Annie. I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.”

That’s all she says for the longest time. At some point you wonder if you’re in that place again and if what you think is her voice is only a mere memory and if everything has ended all over again.

But soon you’re pulled to your feet (don’t worry, I won’t tell anybody how you stumbled and tripped on your own feet, your vision blurry and your knees too weak) and forced to talk to a kid who claims to be the son of Poseidon —and honey, is that really your cousin? Did you truly fall so low so as to be beaten by this child?— and you know it’s only been minutes, but you are so, so tired.

“I’m Annabeth. Daughter of Zeus.”

And apparently, that’s all you needed to say.

* * *

Everything gets fuzzier after that. Almost like it’s in fast forward and you’re looking at it through a kaleidoscope.

She’ll be sixteen in a few months, apparently. Darling, don’t you want to cry when you think about how you’re now older than she was the last time you saw her?

You look at her, blonde hair whipping in the wind and that air of royal elegance that she always had, grey eyes cold and sharp as steel.

How could you miss it, you wonder everyday. She is, in all truth, a queen made to rule empires. Sometimes you don’t understand how you could ever think her father was any other than the king of the gods.

(Yet here you are, small and bound to a life under the shadow of a mother and siblings that are nothing like you.)

Sometimes —but don’t tell her this—, you wish you were her.

Yes, you know she’s got a shit ton of problems —but really, who doesn’t— and that she got turned into a tree and that the destiny of the world is in her hands.

You want power and adventure, that much is obvious; and you crave it so badly that you wouldn’t mind killing whoever it was necessary to get it.

(But who are you trying to kid, child? You wouldn’t dare do it, and that’s why you’ll never change anything, the reason why you’ll be stuck to a miserable life.)

“I don’t want to do it.” Quietly, she walks towards you, and there you are the two of you, on the top of a small hill looking down over the camp that you loathe so much.

_Make it burn. They’ve been nothing but ungrateful for you._

“Do what?”

_They hate you. Luke was right, they deserve to fall._

“The prophecy. I never wanted any of this. I— I just wanted to be normal.”

You snort. It’s unavoidable, really, and before long you are laughing loud, short intakes of breath to keep you from passing out.

She smirks and pokes your side (and there she is, your big sister Annie —and how much you loved that you were the only one allowed to call her that— has come back.”

“What happened to your hair, little bug?”

Oh. It’s like a kick to the ribs, knocking the air out of your lungs and threatening to send you to the floor. Little bug. It’s been years since anyone called you that. It’s been years since the last time you felt wanted.

“It was too long, and too boring. Now it’s short and a little blue, just how I like it.”

She smiles, her lips thin and cracked, unlike years ago. She looks back to the camp ( _killthemkillthemkillthem_ ) and sighs.

“I never wanted any of this.”

And you don’t say a word.

* * *

“Luke is right, Annabeth! Why can’t you see it? The gods hate us and this world needs to change!”

You’re losing her, you know. You just came back from death and Thals is slipping away.

(Does it hurt, sweetie? I sure hope so.)

How can she be so wrong? The gods aren’t perfect, but what Kronos wants is complete destruction, and she will only be a piece in their game.

_Say goodbye, Anna Banana, you might not see her again._

“Why can’t you see how wrong you are, Thals? They want to kill everything, you hear me? Everything! Nothing will be alive after this, not even those on their side!”

She looks at you with a rage that could make universes collapse on themselves. Although you’ll never admit it to anyone, something hurts in your chest when you think about how grown up she is.

(But mostly, what usually hurts is that you weren’t there to see the transformation.)

“For once in your life, Annabeth, admit that you are wrong.”

Wow, that hurts. Has she ever called you Annabeth before? No. You’ve always been Annie, the older sister, the one who would care and protect her from everything.

But that’s a seven-year-old we’re talking about, and this young lady in front of you is now fourteen.

You feel something break inside you —perhaps it’s your soul—, and you whisper, softly, “I’m not.”

She leaves that night, and you cry the tears you haven’t shed in your almost sixteen years of life.

Three weeks later, you bow down to Artemis, swearing off men and achieving immortality. The prophecy is not your problem anymore. Sit back and let someone else take care of it for you.

(Question is, when you were taking the pledge, did you think about how much Thalia wanted what you have?)

* * *

Years pass, and the last thing you knew about her is that she became one of the Hunters and let the weight of an enormous fate fall upon someone else (poor, poor Percy.)

(Late at night, when you let yourself think about everything you’ve left behind, you feel sorry for him. He didn’t deserve being abandoned; but neither did you, and look how that ended.)

So yeah, you go on with you life and pretend this isn’t killing you and that you’ll probably never see your sweet sixteen.

Surprisingly enough, you’re okay with that.

Shouldn’t it be disturbing, darling? You’re just so young…

War comes (and so does Percy’s sixteenth birthday) and you are more than ready to fight. Knock those gods off their thrones, let Kronos think he has the power, and when they all least expect it—

Bang. You’ll make them, all of them, pay for what they did. An you’ll finally be able to sit on your throne, like you were always meant to, with no one to tell you that you don’t really belong.

What you don’t expect is an arrow in your back.

_Well_ , you think, _there goes my brilliant plan_.

And honey, something must be terribly wrong with you if that’s what you think when you start dying.

You go in silence, seconds after that damned arrow, blood falling from your mouth and your fingers digging into the ground.

You’ll never know who shoot you. You’ll never know who was you executioner.

(Perhaps it’s better this way. You still know all their names and favourite drinks and maybe it’d hurt just too much.)

Go rest in peace, Thalia Chase. You fought well.

* * *

It’s perhaps eons later and you still visit her grave, knowing that this is the closer you’ll be to her ever again. It makes breathing much more difficult.

You shot her. You weren’t aiming for her, but your arrow ended buried in her back and you’ll never know how she looked right before dying. You didn’t see the light leave her eyes.

(And to make things worse, the last time you both talked was to years before her death, and you were arguing.)

Will you ever forgive yourself? No. And you’ve got an eternity of remorse.

“Hey there, little bug.”

And you walk away from the grave of who was like your sister, a paper plane ling forgotten on it.

You’ll seek redemption and peace in your next hunt.

(And if things go well enough, you might see her again in the afterlife, like you were meant to.)


End file.
